FIC: The Mathematics of Betrayal [Iron Man, Tony/Obadiah, hard R]
Title: The Mathematics of Betrayal
Fandom: Iron Man
Pairing: Tony Stark/Obadiah Stane
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Noncon. Not a nice story. I mean it.
Summary: Fifteen minutes is a very long time.
Length: ~1,000 words
Disclaimer: These people belong to Marvel. I am not Marvel.
A/N: This would be the noncon on the couch with the paralyzer thing. Yeah. Someone had to do it, right? Might as well be me. Thanks to the hivemind, for providing real-time peanut gallery services. Also, murklins, just on principle. Also, OMG, crazy-awesome prequelish thing over here, courtesy of quigonejinn and dafnap.
***
Fifteen minutes. Nine hundred seconds.
"Breathe," Obadiah says, and Tony does.
"Easy," Obadiah says, and Tony starts counting.
He gets to 53 seconds, 12 inhalations, 125 beats of his heart, and then Obadiah says "fate" and he twists his hand and Tony's not breathing and his heart is. Is.
Is erratic. His pulse rises and falls with the pitch of Ob--. The pitch of Stane's voice. He makes it to 68 seconds, and then he feels this wrenching separation, feels it in the marrow of his bones, feels himself gasp around the sudden emptiness in his chest. That gaping fucking hole.
The blood trickles down his neck at an estimated rate of four millimeters per second. The sweat at his temples is faster, maybe six. He's so hot and it's so cold and there are 755 seconds left when Stane starts to walk away.
He doesn't, though. He makes it 19 steps and Tony takes four breaths, loses seven more seconds, and then there's nothing. There should be a door opening, closing. Instead, there is silence for four seconds. There are 19 more footsteps. There is a knee on the couch, against Tony's thigh. There is a spasm in his quadriceps that gets him nowhere. There is Stane's hand on his chest and Stane's breath on his face and there are 731 seconds to go.
"Actually," Stane says, all bitter cigars, "we've got some time, and there's something I'm curious about." Two fingers through the hole in Tony's shirt, four strokes over one piece of skin, just above the socket wall. The skin there isn't sensitive, too much scar tissue, but no one's touched Tony like that in days gone uncounted. It makes his skin crawl, eight tendrils of terror skittering around his spine, settling low in his belly, deep in his throat.
Stane shifts to sit on the couch, his arm stretching behind Tony's shoulders, pulling him into something that might have been an embrace three days or six months or 12 years ago but probably never was. One finger this time, just behind his ear, seven strokes up. Four quick exhalations against his other ear. Tony feels himself being jostled around, feels his side pressed closer to Stane's body, and spends two seconds trying to close his eyes. Another three wishing he could.
One button on his jeans, 57 teeth on the zipper, only two seconds gone. One layer of fabric, one palm pressed to the base of his cock, 17 days of adrenalin crashing down around him right now, gathering right there, just under Stane's hand, and Tony keeps counting as the unnumbered seconds he's supposed to have left dwindle into thousands, into hundreds.
No, he thinks, no, thinks it eight times a second, thinks he'll think it every second for the rest of his life, all 689 of them. No, as Stane's palm twists, presses twice and twice again, moves and slides and there are no layers of fabric and two layers of skin and no, Tony thinks, no. One finger and one thumb ringing the base of his cock, three fingers curling around his balls, a zero percent chance of control. He built this thing and he knows that and no he thinks anyway, no and no and no again.
No, with every stroke of Stane's hand, four, eight, sixteen times no. "Stop fighting it, Tony," Stane says, six syllables in his ear, hand moving steadily, slowly, not even one stroke per second, coaxing too much of Tony's blood straight into his cock. Eight more strokes to get hard, 37 seconds to shame, seven sharp intakes of breath. His, he thinks, but maybe Stane's. His heart's beating too fast, up to 246 beats per minute, and Tony's running out of seconds faster than they're going by.
"That's it," Stane says, pausing, taking four of Tony's seconds, taking his hand and putting it inside Tony's shirt, letting it sweat on his skin. "Relax." Then two hands are moving, one on his chest, around the edges of the socket wall; one on his dick, stroking and squeezing and twisting at the tip. One hand speeds up and one hand slows down, and Tony stares to the left and counts counts counts. He loses almost a minute to this, loses 55 seconds to 72 strokes, to 72 repetitions of no.
Stane keeps talking, his breath hot on Tony's ear, and Tony tries not to listen, tries to sit and stare and count. Three seconds and "you'll come" and no, Tony thinks, and then probably. Six more seconds and "you're going to die" and yes, Tony thinks, yes yes yes.
He's got 561 seconds left, 9.35 minutes, still more than half, and he wants them all. He'll come in Stane's hand, he knows, he can feel it; no matter how many times he tells himself no, it's still going to happen. So, yes, he'll come in Stane's hand but no, he won't die in his arms. Not like this. So he gives up some seconds, hands over 24 of them, and lets himself go. He tries to think of other things, of women and whiskey and laughter and smooth silken skin, but he can't close his eyes and Stane's beard scratches his face and the hand on his dick is too big, too rough, and Tony has to hand over two dozen more.
He comes with four jerks of his dick, one catch of his breath, and 503 seconds to go. Stane laughs and Tony counts around his splintered thoughts, around no and please and yes and no yes please why no. Two swipes of his hand on Tony's shirt, six more syllables in his ear -- "That's what I thought, Tony" -- and Stane is moving and standing and leaving, 19 more steps to the door.
FIN
Fandom: Iron Man
Pairing: Tony Stark/Obadiah Stane
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Noncon. Not a nice story. I mean it.
Summary: Fifteen minutes is a very long time.
Length: ~1,000 words
Disclaimer: These people belong to Marvel. I am not Marvel.
A/N: This would be the noncon on the couch with the paralyzer thing. Yeah. Someone had to do it, right? Might as well be me. Thanks to the hivemind, for providing real-time peanut gallery services. Also, murklins, just on principle. Also, OMG, crazy-awesome prequelish thing over here, courtesy of quigonejinn and dafnap.
***
Fifteen minutes. Nine hundred seconds.
"Breathe," Obadiah says, and Tony does.
"Easy," Obadiah says, and Tony starts counting.
He gets to 53 seconds, 12 inhalations, 125 beats of his heart, and then Obadiah says "fate" and he twists his hand and Tony's not breathing and his heart is. Is.
Is erratic. His pulse rises and falls with the pitch of Ob--. The pitch of Stane's voice. He makes it to 68 seconds, and then he feels this wrenching separation, feels it in the marrow of his bones, feels himself gasp around the sudden emptiness in his chest. That gaping fucking hole.
The blood trickles down his neck at an estimated rate of four millimeters per second. The sweat at his temples is faster, maybe six. He's so hot and it's so cold and there are 755 seconds left when Stane starts to walk away.
He doesn't, though. He makes it 19 steps and Tony takes four breaths, loses seven more seconds, and then there's nothing. There should be a door opening, closing. Instead, there is silence for four seconds. There are 19 more footsteps. There is a knee on the couch, against Tony's thigh. There is a spasm in his quadriceps that gets him nowhere. There is Stane's hand on his chest and Stane's breath on his face and there are 731 seconds to go.
"Actually," Stane says, all bitter cigars, "we've got some time, and there's something I'm curious about." Two fingers through the hole in Tony's shirt, four strokes over one piece of skin, just above the socket wall. The skin there isn't sensitive, too much scar tissue, but no one's touched Tony like that in days gone uncounted. It makes his skin crawl, eight tendrils of terror skittering around his spine, settling low in his belly, deep in his throat.
Stane shifts to sit on the couch, his arm stretching behind Tony's shoulders, pulling him into something that might have been an embrace three days or six months or 12 years ago but probably never was. One finger this time, just behind his ear, seven strokes up. Four quick exhalations against his other ear. Tony feels himself being jostled around, feels his side pressed closer to Stane's body, and spends two seconds trying to close his eyes. Another three wishing he could.
One button on his jeans, 57 teeth on the zipper, only two seconds gone. One layer of fabric, one palm pressed to the base of his cock, 17 days of adrenalin crashing down around him right now, gathering right there, just under Stane's hand, and Tony keeps counting as the unnumbered seconds he's supposed to have left dwindle into thousands, into hundreds.
No, he thinks, no, thinks it eight times a second, thinks he'll think it every second for the rest of his life, all 689 of them. No, as Stane's palm twists, presses twice and twice again, moves and slides and there are no layers of fabric and two layers of skin and no, Tony thinks, no. One finger and one thumb ringing the base of his cock, three fingers curling around his balls, a zero percent chance of control. He built this thing and he knows that and no he thinks anyway, no and no and no again.
No, with every stroke of Stane's hand, four, eight, sixteen times no. "Stop fighting it, Tony," Stane says, six syllables in his ear, hand moving steadily, slowly, not even one stroke per second, coaxing too much of Tony's blood straight into his cock. Eight more strokes to get hard, 37 seconds to shame, seven sharp intakes of breath. His, he thinks, but maybe Stane's. His heart's beating too fast, up to 246 beats per minute, and Tony's running out of seconds faster than they're going by.
"That's it," Stane says, pausing, taking four of Tony's seconds, taking his hand and putting it inside Tony's shirt, letting it sweat on his skin. "Relax." Then two hands are moving, one on his chest, around the edges of the socket wall; one on his dick, stroking and squeezing and twisting at the tip. One hand speeds up and one hand slows down, and Tony stares to the left and counts counts counts. He loses almost a minute to this, loses 55 seconds to 72 strokes, to 72 repetitions of no.
Stane keeps talking, his breath hot on Tony's ear, and Tony tries not to listen, tries to sit and stare and count. Three seconds and "you'll come" and no, Tony thinks, and then probably. Six more seconds and "you're going to die" and yes, Tony thinks, yes yes yes.
He's got 561 seconds left, 9.35 minutes, still more than half, and he wants them all. He'll come in Stane's hand, he knows, he can feel it; no matter how many times he tells himself no, it's still going to happen. So, yes, he'll come in Stane's hand but no, he won't die in his arms. Not like this. So he gives up some seconds, hands over 24 of them, and lets himself go. He tries to think of other things, of women and whiskey and laughter and smooth silken skin, but he can't close his eyes and Stane's beard scratches his face and the hand on his dick is too big, too rough, and Tony has to hand over two dozen more.
He comes with four jerks of his dick, one catch of his breath, and 503 seconds to go. Stane laughs and Tony counts around his splintered thoughts, around no and please and yes and no yes please why no. Two swipes of his hand on Tony's shirt, six more syllables in his ear -- "That's what I thought, Tony" -- and Stane is moving and standing and leaving, 19 more steps to the door.
FIN